Amber Eyes
by WildNoa13474
Summary: Part 2 of the Identity Crisis series. AU. Stiles had it all planned out. His reincarnation was not in that plan.
1. Pink

**Title: Amber Eyes**

 **Author: WildRosa13474**

 **Summary: Part 1 of the Identity Crisis series. AU. Stiles had it all planned out. His reincarnation was not in that plan.**

 **A/N I'm planning on making this a series of unconnected stories, but don't be surprised if I can't even finish this one. I'ma shove the blame onto 'too busy working on my original book', but it's really just that I seem to be unable to finish anything.** **Also, for some reason I feel the need for this story to be in present tense. No idea why. Be prepared for weirdness.**

Stiles decides he's done with this shit the moment he wakes up.

He vaguely registers lying on his back, feeling like he's just been dunked into a freezing pond- while dosed on pain meds and paralyzed from the waist down. Yeah, those were certainly not Stiles' fondest memories. But on the subject of memories..

He's not supposed to be able to wake up, goddammit. Stiles was supposed to take one for the team, by offering his life force to destroy the Nemeton once and for all, at the crucial moment.

Had their plan failed?

But Stiles doesn't feel like his life force is even the slightest bit weakened. In fact, he feels completely revitalized, if a bit sluggish and weak.

And yes, he realizes those things do not work together, but his mind can't come up with a better description, not right now.

Suddenly, he sees a big silhouette looming over him. Stiles' mind is immediately running a marathon. A giant? He's never seen one of those before. Maybe a giant creature, or a size-changing Chimera?

His first instinct is to recoil- get back, gather information and figure out a plan- but to his surprise and frustration Stiles finds that he can't move. Or rather, he can, but it takes tremendous effort to even attempt to roll over.

Stiles feels like screaming at his body to _move already_. Now is not the time to be useless! If he doesn't do something soon, the giant whatever-it-was would-!

Stiles is almost panicking, immense frustration building, mixing into the whirlwind of emotions already there. He's confused and scared and just wants the idiots he calls friends to come save him already, they have to, they always do!

High wails penetrate the air, shocking Stiles out of his thoughts. He realizes his mouth is open and there's wetness streaming down his cheeks, and abruptly cuts off his crying.

What the hell? Since when do emotions get to him so easily? He's the boy who runs with wolves. He's been through hell. This shouldn't affect him as much as it does.

Stop. Take a deep breath. Analyze the situation.

Stiles forces himself to calm down and takes in his surroundings.

The figure he at first thought was a monster looks like a normal human being, exept maybe five times bigger. For some reason, Stiles' vision is blurry- maybe he got hit on the head and that's why he can't remember what exactly happened- so he can't make out specific features, but the giant seems to be a normal human, wearing white clothes.

When Stiles moves his eyes towards the side, he has to blink multiple times. Everything is white. Where exactly are they?

Stiles' vision slowly clears up, and as the giant, who looks suspiciously like a doctor, cleans the blood off of him- blood? since when was there blood?- he hears him gasp.

The doctor mutters to himself, and Stiles is relieved to find the guy speaks English, although he can only catch a few words. Something about 'blood' and 'wrong'.

Well, that's a bit worrying. The blood's kinda obvious, he's covered in it, but if the doctor says something is wrong that's usually a reason to worry.

Judging by all the white, the doctor and the blood, he's in a hospital somewhere. That's good. It means there's a big chance his friends carried him here, and are sitting in the waiting room bored out of their minds.

A giant hospital. Probably one of Deaton's contacts, that man has more friends then Derek has anger issues, Stiles swears to god.

Stiles relaxes a little bit in relief. He's alright, kinda, and he hoped to God his friends are too. He doesn't think he could bear losing someone else.

With the relief, a wave of exhaustion comes over him, the adrenaline wearing off. Even though he knows his body desperately needs it, Stiles fights against sleep for a few more moments, glancing down at his body to assess the damage, and something clicked.

 _No._ _No no no no no this can't be happening._

Stiles doesn't make a sound as he stares at his unscarred, infant body. It makes sense now, everything from the doctor being a 'giant' to the extreme emotions to the high pitched wail, but his brain refuses to accept it.

 _I haven't just been de-aged, have I? I've been born again. That's why there was so much blood._

Stiles is alone. His pack will never hug him again. His father will never drag him away from his laptop again. Derek will never scowl at him again, Scott will never give his a puppy grin again.

Even as he feels horror and loneliness set in- he'll never see his dad or his pack, ever again- he feels a certain, distant sense of relief too. At least it's just him this time. The plan didn't fail. Hopefully, the Nemeton was destroyed along with Stiles.

Everything is over, and at the same time, it's just begun.

He's dwelling in his thoughts when he hears the doctor speak again, and returns his attention to the white-clad man.

"-problems with the pregnancy." He was saying to a nurse. "The mother is expected to wake up soon. Can you bring her the kid? You're always good with... difficult situations."

Difficult situations? That doesn't sound right. Stiles tries to frown, but manages no more than a pout.

The nurse glances at him and her eyes widen, focusing on his left arm. She looks horrified and a little sick, and Stiles follows her gaze to his previously unnoticed arm.

It's blood red. Not just burned red or badly-burned-red, as Stiles had often seen in the mirror after a day at the beach or an encounter with a flamethrower-carrying hunter respectively, but really, actually blood red. It looks scaly and inhuman, and Stiles can't help but sympathetize with the nurse as he idly wonders if it was an after effect of being reborn.

He'd seen much worse. He'd been cut and bruised and shot and once nearly skinned, he'd seen more blood in his life than he'd seen chocolate syrup and there is just something gravely wrong with that, because dammit, he'd always said his life needs more chocolate syrup. His arm doesn't bother him.

Stiles yawns. He's very, very tired. A few minutes of sleep can't hurt, can it? Well actually it very well could, as-

Stiles wakes up to the sound of a car starting.

He's lying on the backseat, wrapped in a blanket, and there's a woman shivering in the driver's seat. Stiles sleepily wonders if she's his mother- God, he hopes she is, because if she's not he's getting kidnapped again- and if she's cold.

She appears to have felt Stiles' gaze on her, because she turns around and scoots back when she sees the baby blue eyes staring into hers.

To his confusion and dread, Stiles sees something like fear flash in her eyes, which turns to an ugly defiance.

"I don't know what you are," she hisses, surprisingly venomous, and Stiles feels his heart drop, "But you're not my _son_."

W-what? Stiles can't believe his ears. What has he done wrong? Does his mom, his second chance, not love him?

Of course not, Stiles realizes. He isn't her real son. He probably stole her son's body anyway. It's selfish of him to think she would love him.

Traitorous tears well up in Stiles' eyes. He tries to wipe them away, but he can't.

"You'll never be welcome in our home. Just so you know this, Demon Kid, you won't trick me into thinking you're normal. I already saw that arm of yours."

The tears were now streaming down his cheeks, but his mother had already turned away and pressed on the gas. The car drives away silently, the only evidence left behind of it ever being there the black tire tracks.

That had hit too close to home. Memories of _Void Stiles_ , the nogitsune, come drifting up and Stiles does his best to suppress a sob.

 _I'm not a demon, I'm not, you're wrong, I'm not I'mnotimnot-_

Stiles sobs silently into his blue blanket, overtaken by memories, and soon cries himself to sleep for the first time in his life.


	2. Red

**Title: Amber Eyes**

 **Author: WildRosa13474**

 **Summary: Part 1 of the Identity Crisis series. AU. Stiles had it all planned out. His reincarnation was not in that plan.**

 **A/N Warning: child abuse.**

At the age of two, finally deciding his language and motor skills have developed enough, he attempts to run away from the highly abusive woman- not his mother, she will never be his mother- whom he's living with.

As he's sneaking as best as he can out of the back door of the small, filthy apartment, stolen gloves on as to not attract attention to his demonic arm, Stiles happens to glance back and see them woman fueling his nightmares for two years watching him from the bedroom window, a furious shine in her hazel eyes.

He bolts for it.

He doesn't get far. He's still a preschooler, he isn't designed to run for his life.

She drags him back silently, not even getting a second glance from the few passerbys. This happens all the time, after all, kids throwing tantrums and getting away from their mothers.

Stiles isn't bitter. Okay, maybe a bit. He'd known what it was like to have a loving mother and a caring father, and in some part of his heart, he still wishes Bea would be like that.

Bea, his 'mother', is ironically a rather pretty woman. Long, wavy dark red hair, gracious curves and hazel eyes which don't suit her personality at all.

Stiles agrees with the saying that evil is beautiful.

When he was about six months old, as far as she knew at least, she began to try to 'beat the evil out of him' every night. Stiles absolutely hates it, he hates her, he hates how he'd forgotten what being loved felt like.

His eyes had gone from baby blue to dark gray, which add to the insults of other, older kids Stiles sometimes sees on the street while scavenging for food. They say his eyes are in the process of becoming black, and his demon eyes will match his demon arm soon.

Stiles had inherited the woman's dark red hair. He hated that too.

On most nights, he lies awake in his sleeping place on the floor and thinks about his family. His pack, his dad. He remembers the times when they only had each other, and everyone came through. Stiles remembers laughing with them, fighting with them, living alongside them. That's what they called him, the boy who runs with wolves. The cheerful one, who raised the park's spirits. The strategizer.

Would they hate what he had become?

He's now a bitter, broken demon. He was beaten to an inch of his life regularly and couldn't fight back. He was weak, useless, and a demon on top.

Would they still accept him like this? Once upon a time he wouldn't have hesitated to say yes. Now, though, he doesn't know anymore. He doesn't know anything anymore.

Finally back at the run-down, shoddy apartment, Stiles gets thrown on the hard wooden floor and gasps in pain as two of his fingers bend at an odd, awkward angle, crushed between Bea's boot and the floor. The door slams and Stiles cringes at the harsh sound.

He'd seen Bea's name on some papers lying around, but had never been told his own name. Maybe Bea hasn't even given him a name yet.

She's yelling insults at him now, punctuation her words with kicks to the side.

Stiles feels numb. He pretends each kick doesn't hurt like hell. He pretends the bitch in front of him isn't supposed to be the one to care for him and love him.

He fails.

The hits are agony, but the fear and hate in Bea's eyes every day hurts him more. He's seen that look before, he _seen it_ in his mom's eyes.

The look _she_ gives him is the one Claudia, his real mom, had given Stiles in the last years of his life. The words _she_ speaks are the words his mom had spoken, once upon a time. Her hazel eyes melt into a pretty chocolate brown.

 _Her_ hateful voice and his mom's fearful cries clash together in his mind until they become one.

"You freak!"

( _"You're a demon!")_

"A monster like you belongs in hell!"

( _"He's trying to kill me!")_

He's aware he's being hit, kicked, beat up. It's nothing new, and he's become numb to it- mentally, that is. Physically, he feels it just as clearly as he always has.

Tears of pain pool in Stiles' eyes as he takes a kick to the chest, and gasps involuntarily for the air that was stolen from his lungs. He refuses to let the tears fall.

Dark spots begin appearing in his vision as the mother he never wanted continues to kick and hit Stiles, seemingly taking all her frustration out on him and barely caring about the lesson she was trying to teach him anymore.

"I contemplated letting you run away, Demon, good riddance. But my hard work on you, for years even, deserves at least some gratification." She spat.

As sweet, merciful darkness numbs the pain and engulfs Stiles completely, he hears Bea say one more thing, hate spitting from her words.

"That circus better be happy with another _freak_."

When Stiles next manages to lift his eyelids, it's to a dark space, a blinding headache and what feels like a few fractured fingers, which is almost enough to drown out the aching of his chest and.. Well, everything. Except the constant loud rumble he's only half sure is his imagination.

The space he's lying in is almost completely dark and he can only make out a few silhouettes in his line of sight, including a few boxes and multiple humanoid shapes, separated from him by a set of bars. He's in a cage?

After a minute, collecting his thoughts and trying to stay awake, Stiles realizes the shaking of his surroundings isn't just the concussion he doubtlessly has, but that the room is actually shaking slightly. He's in a truck of some kind.

Stiles tries to drag himself into a sitting position, and gets halfway before the agony gets to much and he falls down again. Stiles whimpers in pain, but it quickly turns into a hacking cough which racks his body and darkens the cold steel that he's laying on with blood.

An unfamiliar voice shouts at him to be quiet over the roar of the engine and kicks the bars surrounding him, making a loud metallic clang.

Stiles fights the darkness that's about to overcome him. He doesn't know where he is it's _dangerous_ he has to _make sure his pack is okay no no no what if they're here with him and being torturedjustlikehewas-_

The second time Stiles awakens everything is different.

Bright daylight illuminates the small cage, revealing a dirt road and some grass. There's a murmer of voices behind him and outside the cage, although Stiles doesn't turn to look. They had apparently stopped, for a break maybe.

The headache has died down, his body aches less, and the bruises are tender but barely hurt anymore. Stiles can only be thankful that his body was the most resilient three year old body in England.

"Demon kid!" A rough voice behind him calls. Stiles winces at Bea's nickname for him, shuddering at the reminder of the beating earlier. "You awake yet?"

What had she said again? Something about profiting from her hard work and a circus.. Had she sold him?!

"Don't bother. His consciousness is probably torturing souls in hell right now." Another voice sounds, this one sounding a bit bored.

Had she really sold him? Stiles felt dizzy. It shouldn't have been a surprise, actually. He knows she hated him. He hated her too. So why does he feel so abandoned?

He pushes himself into a sitting position and is immediately and painfully reminded of his fractured fingers.

Stiles hisses in pain and cradles the swollen fingers of his left arm. At least it's his left arm. For some reason, his demon arm seems to heal a lot faster and cleaner than anything else, which is strange because it's paralyzed. Bea had taken it as just another satanic omen, of course.

Stiles decides to worry about it later and looks around, ignoring the aching pain.

There are three men sitting outside the cage, smoking cigarettes. They look big and strong, and are all staring right at Stiles like he's a dog to be put down.

He stares back, taking note of the huge red and white circus tent behind them.

He's been sold to a circus.

Over the next few days, he learns to always obide the ringleader. If he doesn't, there's hell to pay. (If he does, it's limited to just agony.)

One day, sitting under the tree that had been graciously offered as his sleeping place Stiles can't take it anymore. This whole thing, rebirth, his life until now... It's not anything monumental, there's no big realization or an explosion. But that day, the personality that makes Stiles _Stiles_ retreats into the depths of his own mind and doesn't come back out.

In his place there is Red, because they all called him that anyway, clever and too knowledgeable but with none of the emotional trauma Stiles has. Red is a survivor, more fitted to the life of a street rat and with none of Stiles' vulnerabilities.

Red is the fighter Stiles couldn't have been, because what makes Stiles different is his memories of the past, so to survive all Red needs to be is someone who doesn't remember.

Stiles is hidden away deep in his own mind, protected by the mask of Red.

The next morning, receiving his morning greeting in the form of a beating, Red gritted his teeth and cursed the men to death, yelling vulgar insults and lunging at them like a wild animal. He manages to hurt them too- they were so surprised at his sudden change of attitude that they didn't know how to act, until they did. Red nearly died that morning, but he didn't, and he wasn't going to, not as long as he stood up again.

After that, it spread around the crew that trying to beat Red up would get you viciously attacked and mauled, which deterred about half his tormented while the other half hit twice as hard.

Red didn't give a shit. They could abuse him all they wanted, he wasn't going to take it lying down anymore, and he sure as hell was going to return the favor. He'd build walls, and the bastards could go fuck themselves because they were never getting through them.

(never again.)

He wasn't sure why it was, but there was nothing he was more sure about. These people would _not_ be the people who ruined him. After so many broken hearts(he hadn't even seen one yet) and so many years spent fighting(he'd just began) he would not allow _these_ pathetic fuckers to break him.

By the time he was six, Red was a vicious, self learned fighter. Reckless and dangerous, he wasn't a person anyone wanted to be within ten feet of except if they had him tied down and unconscious. Which happened more often than he liked( _familiar_ ) because frankly he had worse luck than anyone should be allowed to have.

Red didn't dwell on thoughts. Red fought and survived and _thrived._ Vaguely, in his memories, there was a time Before, but he didn't remember and Red honestly didn't _care._

Today was all that mattered, and anyone who got in his way was an obstacle to be eliminated. The regular beatings had decreased as Red bared his fangs and learned to only trust himself. All he had was himself, anyone else was the enemy, everyone was against him, they always had been( _they hadn't, not everyone, there was once... something..)._

Red was independent. He lived trapped yet always fighting, dead yet surviving of pure determination. He was beaten yet not defeated, caged yet flying between the clouds.

His life was a harsh one, but Red survived and thrived and that was all he needed.

 _(And if sometimes he saw a scarf in the middle of summer_ , _a flash of strawberry blond hair, a shining sheriff's badge, a dark scowl hiding fondness, a yellow light reflected in a pair of eyes or a goofy, innocent smile and felt a crushing_ loneliness _and_ emptiness _that made his heart stutter and his breath hitch for no reason_ , _it was quickly shoved away out of fear and forgotten in the darkest, most hidden corner of his mind.)_

 **A/N Also, in this universe trucks were invented in 1870 instead of 1898.. Because, well, I wrote them into the story before remembering D. Gray-man is set in the 19th century and am too lazy to change it.** **Currently in-story it's 1883.**


	3. Mana

When he was seven, a dog wandered towards Red. It was brown and white and looked up at him with big, curious black eyes.

Red bared his teeth at it, remembering the other circus dogs that used to hound him. This one's nails looked just as sharp, and Red did not particularly want to find out if they hurt just as much.

He'd seen the dog around, of course. It was always with that clown that joined a few months back. Come to think of it, where was the clown now? Red looked around, keeping one eye on the undeterred dog, but outside of the circle of tents and half behind one as he was, there was no one in sight.

He turned back to the dog, and apparently the latter took it as an invitation, because the mutt stood up and began walking toward him again, wagging it's tail exitedly, only halted by Red's warning growl. It's big black eyes looked confused and it's tail had stopped wagging too. Red tried to stop feeling bad.

What did the thing want from him? It's not like he'd be any good as dog food, there was barely anything to eat off his bones. Maybe the dog just wanted a new chew toy.

But the dog wasn't attacking. It was just standing within arm's reach, sniffling around on the cobblestones for some insects to snack on.

(personally Red recommended worms. They didn't taste particularly better than other insects, but were certainly easier to catch in comparison with ants and the like, not to mention more filling.)

Red stared at it, too cautious to move past it and away, until it lost interest and returned to the camp site.

Something about the dog's attitude, almost like it was lost, looking for its master, reminded Red of something. Something a long time ago before he was called Red. That...

He shook his head in frustration. He couldn't recall.

He put it out of his mind and focused on the present.

A few days later the dog wandered over to him again. Red backed up and stared at it warily, but the dog stubbornly trotted towards him, something like a smile on its snout.

Red didn't know why, maybe it was instinct, maybe sheer stupidity and defiance, but he didn't move further back. He stood stock still as the dog sniffled around him, his mind terrifyingly blank.

Then, to his eternal shock, the dog licked his demon hand.

Red didn't move, staring in wonder at the dog, whose attention had already diverted to something in a bush.

The mutt had actually touched Red's demonic arm, something everyone was disgusted by and afraid of. Didn't this dog think he was a monster, like the other dogs clearly did?

That evening, when Cosimo demanded he put glass in that same dog's food- Red could tell it was petty revenge for the animal's owner being more popular- Red thought back to that moment and refused. He got beaten for it, more than usual, but he endured it like always. He wouldn't kill the only creature that accepted him.

It was useless, anyway. The next day Red was shoveling snow when he found that clown crouching by a small grave, holding a bright red ball.

"I see. You were Allen's friend too."

Red aggressively wiped away the stubborn tears and snarled at the man.

"So what? It doesn't matter now, does it?"

The strange man pulled him into a hug, and for once, Red didn't jump away.

He didn't know why, but over the next few days Red packed whatever stuff he could scrounge together and went with the clown, Mana. He was a good assistent, Mana had said, making Red secretly glow in pride.

Before he knew it, Christmas had passed again. A year on the road, and Red couldn't remember if there had ever been a better time in his life.

Red liked being a clown. He could put on a mask, pretend not to be the monster he was, act like a different person.

The first time Mana called him Allen, two years after the circus, Red didn't even notice for a moment, too caught up in what Mana had complimented him for.

After the moment passed he did notice, and frowned. Then he shrugged and continued practicing his juggling, it was just a slip up after all.

It happened again, and again, and finally Red decided to correct Mana.

"Of course you're Allen." The clown responded, looking confused on why Red would think he wasn't.

Red steps back and looked at Mana in contemplation.

He's slowly slipping, Red realized with a weird calm. Mana had always had that lost look his eyes, the slightly strange smile, but Red only now recognized it. From where, he didn't know, but he recognized it.

"Okay, Mana," He said softly, all the defenses, barriers he had set up years ago long faded into his memories, "I'll be your Allen."

Mana grinned, slightly confused but accepting.

"Of course you are," He repeated again.

That day, Red too disappeared into the boy's memories.

The boy with so many identities and masks that he'd lost himself in the process.

Allen had dreams sometimes. About people he was sure he knew but had never seen before. About laughing, and fighting, and nothing really made sense in them.

Eventually, the dreams faded away. Allen was almost disappointed, but put it out of his mind. They had just been dreams, after all.

Allen didn't expect it. He didn't expect it to happen so suddenly, interrupting their peaceful lives.

 _"Mana! Wake up, Mana!"_

Allen's cries were distant to his own ringing ears, he felt like he was falling, this couldn't be happening, it couldn't-

 _"Mana! Don't- Don't leave me alone-"_

Allens sight blurred as his eyes filled with tears, and suddenly it wasn't Mana's body he was holding.

 _"Mom-" Stiles choked on his tears. "Mom, don't go, please, I still need you!"_

 _"No, you don't, sweetie."_

 _The woman he was holding_ _smiled sadly at him, tears rolling down her cheeks, too weak to_ _move._

Allen snapped out of it with a gasp, letting go and stumbling back in horror before falling down on the hard cobble of the alley.

That's where the man found him, sobbing on the street, a crashed carriage and a lifeless body only meters away. The man crouched down and looked the boy in the eyes gently.

"What's your name, kid?" He asked softly, carefully turning the boy away from the awful sight of the body.

"I don't know," The boy sobbed hysterically, "I don't _know_."

Calculating eyes stared back from behind thick glasses. The man sighed, pulling the younger boy before him into a hug. The Earl would come for the boy soon, no doubt.

Tyki didn't know why, but he regretted the fact that the boy was going to die. He felt sympathy for the kid, who couldn't be older than ten years old.

"Shall we bury him?" He proposed suddenly, instinctively wanting to comfort the child just a bit. It wouldn't interfere with calling the soul back anyway, so it was no problem, and perhaps it would bring the boy some closure.

The boy looked up at him with big tearful eyes and nodded softly.

Cursing himself for being such a softie the entire time, Tyki carried the body a small ways away from the town and dug a shallow grave on a hill. To his surprise, the boy helped too, silently, perhaps to honor his father's memory.

When he was done and the body was buried, Tyki reluctantly left a grieving boy, knowing he'd die not long after.


End file.
